


I Hate Valentine's Day (But I Love You)

by crush (beekeepercain)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Affection, Brotherly Love, Caring Sam, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 21:51:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10052897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/crush
Summary: Dean's sick on Valentine's Day - Sam to the rescue.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another genfic with a pairing. Don't even ask me, I don't even know what I'm writing anymore. This was supposed to be a Wincest fic but I fail at creating pairings so now it's just an unusually cuddly brother fic.
> 
>  **[Wincest Writing Challenge](http://wincestwritingchallenge.tumblr.com/):** February  
>  **Prompt:** “I hate Valentine’s Day but I love you”

* * *

 

Dean wakes up to the worst possible feeling. He's stuffy and his throat's _burning_ , and the sheer realisation sends him jolting up from the bed. Sam groans; Dean's pretty sure he elbowed him in the neck while sprinting up, but the realisation doesn't cause one shiver of guilt in him.

"What are you..." Sam mutters, climbing up after him.

Dean drags in a breath and regrets it immediately afterwards. He coughs, and it goes on for a really long time; Sam's palm rubs gently at his back, but his skin is burning.

"When did that happen?" Sam asks him with a compassionate tone in his voice.  
He's already getting up - it's barely morning yet, and Dean wants to tell him to go back to bed. He can't; instead, he keeps swallowing to convince his body that he's not drowning.

Shuddering, he falls back in the bed.  
"It's Valentine's Day", he mutters in a broken voice, "I can't be sick today."

"Tell that to your immune system," Sam chuckles.  
He's already pulling on clothes, and Dean gives him a judgemental look.

"Where the hell are you going?" he asks, but Sam shrugs his words off.

"I'll be back in twenty minutes. Try to stay huddled up while I'm gone, alright?"

"Nngh," Dean grunts; he's cocooning up.  
It's hellishly cold.

Sam stays out for twenty-five minutes. When he comes back, he lets in a blow of ice age with him, forcing Dean deeper into his hellfire-imbued shelter. His whole body is burning with frost. He watches Sam undress back to a pair of sweatpants and a black v-neck, cheeks red from the chilly air outside; he's brought a brown paper bag with him. It seems to be full.

"I hate Valentine's Day," Sam chuckles wearily and brushes snowflakes out of his hair, "It's everywhere."

"Shut up," Dean growls and closes his eyes bitterly, "You know it's the best day of the year."

"Am I twisting the knife?"

"Yep."

"Well," Sam's voice carries across the room a little faded and absent, "It'll come around again."

A snapping sound announces Dean that the kettle is on. Soon after comes the sound of simmering. Sam's steps move around in the room and Dean's barely hanging onto his consciousness; the world fades in and out with his ears seemingly full of water, and every breath he lets out burns in his nostrils. The bed bends under a man's weight, and the mattress adjusting underneath Dean's side makes him feel skinless and raw. He peers out of one eye and sees Sam towering above him with a small smile on him.

"Sit up," Sam tells him, lifting a steaming mug in his hands.

Dean moves slowly and stiffly, and his bones ache.

"You'll catch this," he mumbles as Sam presses the hot mug in his hands.

Sam shrugs.  
"I can handle it. Drink, it'll make you feel better."

Dean looks down into the cup. He can't smell a thing, but the rich brown colour tells him enough. A small smile crosses his lips as he sighs and gives in: the faintest hint of chocolate lingers over his tongue when he takes a sip of the drink. Beside him, Sam's making a spot for himself on the bed; he leans against the headboard and wraps an arm around Dean's shoulders, and before Dean can protest, he's pulled him close. His warmth feels much nicer than the coarse fabric of the blanket around Dean, and Dean wants to cuddle up closer like a cat brushing up against a petting hand. Instead, he grunts passionlessly and drinks another careful sip from his hot chocolate. Around him, the blanket's moving as Sam pulls it up and brings it over himself. His warmth takes over immediately, radiating like a smaller sun underneath the cover, and Dean sighs and leans back, his head resting over Sam's arm as he relaxes. His world shifting a little, he tilts his head and looks at Sam, grinning.

"'s gross," he mumbles, blowing aside Sam's hair tickling his face, "You're too close."

"Shut up," Sam tells him casually.  
He reaches out of the bed and pulls his laptop off the bedside table. Dean makes a sound as it plops down over his aching leg, its other side over Sam's, but his attention draws to it as Sam enters Netflix.

"What do you want to watch?" Sam asks him, his chin resting suddenly against Dean's head.

Dean sniffs.  
"Anything," he says with his eyes slipping closed, "'s long as it ain't stupid. And as long as I don't have to stay awake for it."

"There's an infinite amount of Star Trek," Sam chuckles, "You've seen it before."

"I can't sleep through Star Trek, you fiend," Dean grunts and pushes his brother's hand aside.  
He hovers the cursor over _Cutthroat Kitchen_ for six seconds before Sam presses his finger into the button.

"Fine," the younger man grunts back at him as the episode loads, "Just don't fall asleep before you've emptied the cup."

"I won't," Dean mumbles; his eyes close for a while, stinging and burning. "Promise."

Sam nudges him in the side. It hurts like hell.

"Stop."

"I told you. Don't fall asleep."

"I feel awful."

"Quit whining."

Dean squints at the screen; the feel of Sam's face brushing over his feels both welcome and embarrassing. It takes him a while to realise that his brother's just left a soft kiss over his forehead.

"Gross," he complains and tries to move up to become at least as tall as Sam is, but he can't quite force his body up from its comfortable slump.

Sam makes a vague sound and rests his cheek against the side of Dean's head. His hand still rests over his brother's, and Dean accepts it; it blankets his bare skin nicely enough so that he doesn't have to move it back under the covers. His other hand's still wrapped around the hot mug and he drinks - the hot chocolate doesn't burn his mouth anymore, and the feel of the warm liquid moving down his throat in a large swallow makes him feel very warm and very comfortable.

He'd really, really prefer it if he could just fall asleep there, but he promised. Instead, he rubs his side against Sam and sighs heavily, leaning his head back toward Sam in return and mustering up the strength to drink again. Beside him, Sam's so soft and so nice and so warm in a way that doesn't make Dean feel like he's being burned at the stake. It's a nice change to everything else in his world.

"What did I do to deserve you," he mumbles, only half-aware of what he's saying.

Sam laughs softly. His unshaven jaw rubs into Dean's scalp when he moves.  
"You know that I hate Valentine's Day," he repeats to him then, and his voice seems a little shaky all of a sudden, like he's nervous, "But - I know what it means to you and how much you wait for it to come around every year. And the truth is, Dean, that - I look forwards to it, too, just because of how happy it makes you."

"Sap."

"Yeah, no, the worst is still coming," Sam chuckles, "Trust me."

They're quiet for a moment, and Dean's so tired that he forgets to anticipate the worst that Sam promised. Then, with the movement of the other's lips over his hairline, he wakes up to it.

"I love you," Sam tells him in a serious voice, "And I'm sorry you got sick this year."

"Huh," Dean hears himself let out; he's not entirely awake anymore.  
He feels the bottom of his empty mug press against his belly and he snuggles up closer to Sam again, as close as he can get. He feels his brother hold him a little bit tighter for a moment, and he really wants to open his eyes, but his lids are simply too heavy. Instead, he smiles a little.

"I love you, too," he mumbles, each word very slow and scattered, "Even though you're a big, gross sap."

"Right."

"Anyway."

"Anyway," Sam agrees; his hold around Dean grows a little lighter, but Dean can feel his fingers run down over his arm once as he relaxes, "Happy Valentine's Day, brother."

"Right back at you, Sammy," Dean echoes, his own voice distant in his ears.  
He falls asleep feeling exceptionally safe and satisfied with the sounds of several cooks feverishly chopping ingredients echoing in his ears.


End file.
